


The Making of Monsters

by DarkShadeless



Series: Poison is my remedy [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: (hints of) suicidal ideation, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Blood and Gore, Brainwashing, Character Death, Dissociation, Isolation, Loss of Identity, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Sith being very Sith, Stockholm Syndrome (I think), These two need therapy, Torture, Victim turned perpetrator, and it's very mutual, dark themes, or at the very least, touch starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22514563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: From the moment they meet Baras makes Yon feel uneasy but not nearly as uneasy as the shadow of the apprentice that follows him.
Relationships: (hints of) Somminick Timmns/Male Sith Warrior
Series: Poison is my remedy [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616107
Comments: 26
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, buckle your seatbelts >> Baras is a bastard and I feel like that should not be news.  
> Timeline-wise this is the very beginning but it made more sense to me to post out of order for this series. (I also wrote them in this order, so yeah)  
> This is the incredibly fucked up origin story of Talionis’ and Sar’s relationship and I’m not even kidding. 
> 
> Additional warning that didn't fit into the tags but I feel like might be warranted: With the attempted brainwashing we get affectionate and comforting behaviour from the person committing that. While they may or may not be in this just as unwillingly as the other party, that doesn't make the entire situation any better. So you know. Have a heads-up.

From the moment they meet Baras makes Yon uneasy.

He tries not to let it show, covers it in a glamor of perfect manners and subservience but that's the truth of it. He doesn't have the first idea what to do about that niggling feeling.

He hasn't learned to be wary of those with authority over him yet. If the lessons pressed into him since before he could walk fail him in one thing, it's that. Yon has been raised to be _loyal_. Extending that vulnerability to his master, however tentatively, is the gravest mistake he'll ever make.

Would it have changed anything if he didn't? Perhaps.

Or perhaps not.

"Leave us." Baras dismisses Vemrin without a glance.

"But-!"

"I said _leave_ ," anger cracks through the Force like a lick of thunder. "I have no further need of you."

Even Yon's disagreeable fellow acolyte seems to catch on to the fact that retreat is the better part of valour here. He has lost. Yon has won.

For a nonsensical second he wishes he hadn't.

As is prudent Yon stamps down that hint of stage fright and waits at attention for his potential master to address him.

Baras crosses his arm's behind his back and musters him quietly. In the far corner of his office a brief flare of orange clues Yon in on his senior apprentice doing the same.

Not all Sith take just one student at a time. It's simply not prudent. Still, something about the arrangement unsettles him further and has from the start.

Lord Talionis is a tall man but quiet. Obviously skilled, he fades into the shadows of his master as easily as he breathes. If it comes to Baras mind to set them against each other, or if his presence offends the Mirialan enough to take action on his own, Yon will be in a world of trouble but that isn't what sets his nerves alight, sensible as it would be.

It's Talionis’ eyes. They're… dead.

Under their weight directionless alarm prickles over Yon’s skin on tiny, tickling feet. Cold fear reaches for his heart. For the life of him, he can’t say why.

Yon breaks their stare off awkwardly and turns his attention back to where it should be.

Baras, it seems, has looked his fill. "Very well. Talionis, ready the shuttle. We leave within the hour."

 _That_ claim is startling enough for him to speak out of turn. "My lord?" He takes a breath and starts anew before his unexplainable case of anxiety can make more of a fool out of him than it already has. "Aren't you going to set me another task?"

It is customary. A trial by fire, the last test before the acolyte has proven themselves worthy to leave Korriban a Sith.

Really, it would have been fitting to pit him against Vemrin in one last fight, to see which of them would come out on top when the chips are down.

_But that's not necessary is it? Yon has already shown he is quicker, stronger, more powerful in the Force. All that could give his rival an edge, what could get him ahead, his drive perhaps, his will, a lick of smarts that decides their match… none of it is what Baras is looking for. No. He doesn't need to test for things that may well come apart under the knife._

_What he needs are the bare bones that won’t. Components of construction._

The very air grows still. Baras’ mask turns towards him ever so slightly. "Are you questioning me, apprentice?"

There is only one acceptable answer. "Of course not, master."

"Good."

Perhaps, if Yon had learned doubt, if he _had_ questioned it would have changed something but… would it really have? Baras is a Dark Lord of the Sith and he is but an acolyte. In the end he has no power over his own fate. Not then.

And not now.

* * *

Agony sets Yon’s nerves alight. His screams echo through the chamber, unrestrained, just another small battle lost, ground he has learned to give to save strength. It used to take Talionis hours to make him _sing_ , as he calls it.

Sometimes Yon still manages to scrape together the motivation to spit at him when he does. Sometimes. There are more important fights.

Pain flays him to the bone. He’s not even bleeding but that’s not necessary. Their master’s tools are nothing if not precise. His temples grow hot, a high-pitched whine reverberating through his skull as if his fellow apprentice is literally carving it open and that’s how Yon knows to brace himself, as much as he can.

The rest of it, the terrible things Talionis does to him that replay in flashes every time Yon closes his eyes and steal what little sleep he can hoard, they are just window dressing. There’s almost no point in struggling on that front. It took him too long to realize that.

No, Talionis is just softening him up. All of what he’s putting Yon through is meant for _this_.

The whine grows louder and louder until the sound itself is almost more painful than the blood-boiling torment wracking his body and underneath… there is a whisper.

Yon has yet to find out if it is even real or a product of his own mind, form given to a torture he’s not equipped to experience.

_You will obey your master._

The voice is cool, a soothing oasis in the hell his world has become. All he has to do is give in and let it blanket him.

_Give in. You belong here. This is your place._

The _kriff_ it is. Yon thrashes in his bonds. All control over his muscles has long been lost. That, too, is not a hill worth dying on but _this_ is. It’s the only one that matters.

“ _No._ ”

He can’t be sure he actually says the word. He feels as if he does. At the same time he feels as if he is gritting his teeth so hard they might crack, as if he is still screaming. What is real? He has no way to tell.

_Give in. Obey._

**_“No!”_ **

Yon throws all that is left of his will against the current pulling on him and dragging him ever closer to… where to? Wherever the voice is coming from. It has its hooks in him, hundreds of tiny points of agony and they’re pulling him in no recognizable direction. Time ceases to exist.

_No. No, no, no. NO._

That word washes out with every repetition but it anchors him. While Yon clings to it he won’t move. And he won’t move. Not on this.

So he hopes, so he _prays_ when there is enough sense left in him to fear failure.

There’s no room for any other fear in him now and often not even that. Talionis has filled him up with pain until there is barely space for it, or for rage or even defiance. There’s nothing left in him but he still has that word. There was a reason he needed it and he’s not giving it up.

It will end. It _has_ to.

That conviction is more than denial. All naiveté has long been worn out of him. This torture will end because if it doesn’t Talionis will kill him and their master does not want him to die. While his continued resistance is infuriating, Baras has invested too much in him. Too much time, too much of his pride.

And while Baras wishes to break him, Talionis can’t risk taking his life.

That limits his options. It’s the only mercy Yon knows.

* * *

What do you call the absence of something that has become your entire world?

Eventually, the whispers grow quiet. The whining stops, the hooks drilled into the foundations of his self fade away. The pain ends.

What is left on the slab of the interrogation chamber is a quivering mess that was a person before someone took them apart with the painstaking care of an artist unravelling the seams of an antique doll.

Reality is as abstract as time. Yon becomes aware again of his body gradually. In the wake of fading agony comparatively smaller aches bloom with an intensity that is torment all on its own.

But it’s not enough to keep him insensate. Not anymore. Talionis has broken and remade him too many times for ‘pain’ to still carry the same meaning it once had.

His tormentor is tidying up, setting aside the tools of his bloody trade with care and starting the arduous process of repairing what he has damaged. Not all the way, just enough to be feasible. Yon will be left with the low-level ache of this session for days. It will leech his strength and clarity of mind, both of which he has too preciously little of already, and then they will start over.

Unless he manages to get away this time.

_Get away how? Where to?_

It would be so easy to give up. How long has he been here? How much longer, until he escapes? How many times have they played this game?

If those questions have answers, Yon doesn’t know them. In the wake of the terrible emptiness his suffering has left behind there’s nothing left but the one thing that has kept him going.

Talionis has chipped away at him, bit by bit at their master’s behest. He has cut and carved, trying to bend Yon to Baras’ will and falling short again and again. With every attempt Yon shed pieces of himself at his hand. Illusions, innocence, morals and ideals were stolen by inches. Hope as well as fear was torn from his hands. Fury died like a fire denied air and burned out eventually. He is so tired.

He’s fighting for survival, run to the ground, caught and released too many times. Some days there’s no energy left inside of him for complex emotions, or emotions at all. Sometimes Yon grows so numb he’s all but indifferent to the thought of his jailor coming for him yet again.

All but. Not quite. If he wasn’t aware of what awaits him on the other side of that surrender maybe that would be different but he does know.

It’s his worst nightmare, the one that wakes him from his fitful naps in cold sweat more than any other.

_A moment frozen in time, the still-life of a fight. Talionis, above him, his wrist in a grip fit to break bones, face a blank mask and this close, for the first time, Yon looks at him and he **sees**. _

_They blend into the scars that cover the Mirialan’s forehead and cheeks perfectly. Three small circles of scared skin, one each on his temples and one right in the center of his brow._

_Yon knows these marks. He feels the sear of them every time Talionis is done with him._

_If he had a mirror he has no doubt he would find them on himself._

The single most horrifying moment of his captivity was when he realized looking into Talionis' empty eyes was like looking at a window to his own future. Yon knows with a clarity that’s primal in its terror that it would be easy, so easy. Easier than resisting, certainly.

To give in. To give up. To… fade away and not have to feel anymore.

He almost _longs_ for that, sometimes but he can’t. He… can’t. That’s the awful truth of why he is still fighting. Not because he wants to, or even because he needs to. Talionis cut him apart, he took everything out Yon couldn’t hold on to, and this is all he has left. Under hope, fury and fear, after hitting rock bottom and apathy, in the rubble of who he once was, there was _this_.

Slack in the aftermath of their latest session he waits. He saves his strength. While his fellow apprentice removes the contacts almost gently and start to dab kolto onto his injuries where required, the only feeling remaining in the scorched desert of his ash-choked heart is…

 _Rage_.

A rage that has burned and died, an emotion so far past anger it’s less than passion, a negative of a flashfire left behind in soot to stain the ground for eons. The coals that used to crack and smoulder in bursts of temper, compressed to a diamond.

Yon couldn’t give it up if he wanted to.

It’s all he is. It’s all that’s left.

Talionis takes the time to brush his bangs out of his face. If he wasn't who he is Yon might have leaned into the gentleness of that simple touch.

He pretends he's unconscious instead, not that either of them buys it.

"All of this would end if you just gave in." There’s the faintest reprimand threaded though the admonishment. "Why don’t you make this easier on yourself? You don’t have to suffer."

He likes to talk to him, sometimes. When he does he always sounds like he is addressing an errant child that doesn't know what’s good for it.

Yon grits his teeth and doesn't turn his way. It’s one of the few things he can deny him and he will. He won’t give him his attention too.

Talionis brushes his hair behind his ear with the same care he takes with his torture implements. His touch lingers there, light. Warm. Yon refuses to acknowledge any part of it.

After a short while the other Sith sighs. "You will learn."


	2. Chapter 2

When Talionis opens the cell, it's empty. That is not a first. As such it doesn't surprise him. His fellow apprentice is starting to make a habit of forcing him to hunt him down. "How did you get out this time?"

The bare stone walls of the empty chamber don’t give him an answer. The needle he finds in the remains of the mag-lock, however, does.

Sar must have filched it during his last session and hidden it away.

He's getting creative. How troublesome.

Talionis gives the desolate little room a last look and moves on. He will have to scour the premises again.

Absently he triggers the security systems and settles into an unhurried stride as his senses sweep out. He won’t find Sar that easily, though. Not anymore.

_‘When I told you you would learn this was not what I meant.’_

The though rises unbidden, tinged with something that is almost frustration and a touch of something sweeter, something _fiercer_ Talionis can't make sense of before it falls away again and leaves him empty.

It's more than he has felt in some time. When Baras put his newest tool into his hands and said 'Do to him what I did to you' he felt… nothing.

That isn't quite true anymore but that matter is a mystery for another day.

There is no denying facts. Sar _is_ learning. He is adapting at a rate Talionis finds himself vaguely impressed by.

The polite little thing his master picked up on Korriban like a pretty bauble has become nigh unrecognizable, gone feral with what it has been put through. Last week Sar nearly bit a chunk out of his arm when he came for him.

It's intriguing, in an abstract sense.

From the moment his master set his sights on his new student, Talionis started to catalogue the ways he would break. How he would cave. He should have, by now, but… he hasn't.

He shattered along the fault lines Talionis saw and some he didn't but he hasn't _broken_. Not the way he expected. He saw so much of himself in him, especially at first. Young, foolish, with no idea what he was in for.

How is he still resisting?

_Talionis didn't. He hadn't. He had fallen, eventually, begging for an end._

The whole matter is very inconvenient but there's nothing for it. No matter where Sar has decided to hide, he will find him and he will bring him to heel as their master desires.

The shadowed corridors of Baras' stronghold unspool before his minds eye. He scents the stale air for a hint of Sar's trail.

_'Where have you gone, hm? Where did you think you'd be safe?'_

* * *

This has become their routine. Sar will run and Talionis will follow, he will fight and Talionis will win. The gap is simply too big. What is an acolyte fresh out of Korriban compared to a Sith Lord? Nothing.

But with every loss, Sar grows. It is only a matter of time before he finds the strength, skill, or luck to come out on top if he can hold on. He only needs to win once.

If Talionis was any less shackled to their master's will he would kill him. He should kill him.

… shouldn't he?

He should. He should kill him. There is no question about it. At the very least he should destroy Sar's last vestiges of defiance and tear his loyalty from him whether he cares to give it or not.

But Talionis finds himself… hesitant.

Could he push harder? Could Sar take more? It's telling that he isn't sure either way.

If he presses him too roughly it could be the end of this headache of a mission Baras has bestowed upon him… and yet.

He finds him in the reservoir this time. The high ceiling, crisscrossed with catwalks that make a passage above the cisterns possible if not without peril are one of the more obscure places Sar could have chosen to lure him.

Something akin to anticipation curls around Talionis heart when he catches a flicker of a shadow at the far side.

_‘There you are.’_

* * *

"You are making this so much harder than it has to be."

The electrodes are still sparking where he has coiled them for the cleaning droids. Ozone is thick in the air.

His knee still smarts where his quarry broke his armor on the catwalk-grating, hours before. For the blink of an eye Talionis hadn't been sure he would be fast enough to get his guard up. He rarely feels as alive these days as he did then.

Sar doesn't answer. That's alright. Considering what Talionis just did to him he's inclined to be understanding.

As has become his habit he busies himself carding his fingers through his hair. It's dark, black as coal and softer than it looks. When Sar is like this, exhausted and still for the time being, he reminds Talionis of a small, shivering animal. A fragile little thing.

He's the only person he has touched of his own volition in years. How strange.

"Don't you want this to stop?" ‘ _Because I do. The hunt is enjoyable but I am tired of this. If you gave up I wouldn't have to hurt you anymore. Don't you want that too?’_ “You could end this.”

This drawn-out battle of wills has already taken longer than Talionis thought it could. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. The unspeakable became well-worn through repetition.

He is about to turn away and get the kolto when Sar shifts and grabs for his wrist. Talionis hasn't even noticed him slipping his bonds. He is getting so _quick_. That strange, electric feeling sparks through him again. (Almost pride. Not quite hope.)

_Will he win again next time? Will he lose? Will he die?_

_He had begged for an end but Baras hadn't given it to him. Not really. Does he still want one? Is he still capable of wanting anything?_

Their eyes meet.

Sar's voice is so hoarse from screaming it's a wonder he can speak at all. " _You_ could end this."

It's not the plea Talionis half-expected, given the choice of words. No. It's… tired. Angry. Sar smells like misery, exhaustion and pain. A touch of accusation lingers like poison.

Gently, Talionis reaches for his hand and frees himself. "No."

That's all there is to it, in the end. He can't help either of them, not even himself.

* * *

_# Master. I report to inform you of the progress I have made regarding your apprentice, Yon'Sar al Thum, or rather my regretful lack of the same. #  
_

* * *

Their stalemate drags out, past what Talionis expects his master to tolerate and further still. Sar can't escape him indefinitely but it takes him longer and longer to bring him down, until one night Talionis wakes with the chilling feeling that he is not alone. That he is being _watched_.

And he is. All he has to do is open his eyes to see the truth of it. Across from his own simple bedframe a silhouette he has grown to know as well as his own crouches atop his dresser.

Sar's eyes are twin pools of pure red in the dark.

Talionis scoffs quietly.

He can't feel him, in the Force. Even his scent is non-existent when he searches for it instinctively. Sar might as well be a mirage. Impressive, how far he has come. He will make a good assassin one of these days. But…

"You're not quiet enough yet."

His adversary stares back at him with a predator's detached calculation. After a few heartbeats, Sar tosses a pebble in the air and catches it again. "Am I? Waiting for you to wake up was getting boring."

A different sort of chill reaches for Talionis' heart. He sits up, slowly, more wary than before. "How long have you been here?"

The sound Sar makes would be more suited to a child without a care. "An hour, I think? I was counting the seconds but that's not exactly precise."

There's no other way for him to keep time, for either of them. The only timepiece in the whole stronghold is hardwired into the comm. unit. There are no windows. The world outside might as well not exist.

An hour. If that is true… Talionis' stomach sinks with dread. An hour. No wonder he has failed to catch him for days. An _hour_.

With a coolness he doesn't feel he ventures, "Why haven't you killed me then?"

_‘Why haven't you? You should have.’_

“I thought about it.” Sar rolls his pebble between his hands. After a few heartbeats he and looks away. "Maybe next time."

* * *

Morning finds Talionis at the comm. It is not yet time for his weekly report but circumstances have changed. He can no longer lie to himself.

_# There is little I can think of I have not yet attempted. I have exhausted my options, master. #  
_

_# His cell has ceased to hold him some time ago. In fact, I have been unable to secure him since I last had reason to report to you. I… no longer believe I am capable of doing so. #  
_

Talionis pauses, arrested by the damning words, before he makes himself continue.

_# It has become apparent that I cannot complete the orders you have given me, master. I await your direction. #  
_

_# Talionis, out. #_

The holo comm. unit powers down without fanfare in the wake of that code phrase. Nothing to show for what he has just done. What he had to do.

"Tattled on me, did you? For shame, Talionis."

For some reason that bit of mockery comes as no surprise. Maybe a part of him is still capable of tracking his wayward charge, no matter how subconscious.

He's right there, perched among the ceiling beams like a shriek-bat and letting his feet dangle in the air. How Talionis has missed him is anyone's guess. Perhaps he has managed to master his Force cloak as well. At this point it isn't out of the question.

"You should have killed me,” is all he can think to say.

Sar, in his usual tact, huffs in derision. "Pf. Do you think I'm an idiot? Who would feed me if I did that, huh? Bet our master wouldn't supply an empty lab."

That is actually a good point and yet. Talionis eyes him sceptically. "You seem to have found a way to circumvent that problem." He has to. There's no possible way he could have built the strength he has on the rations allotted to his care.

"I guess." Sar stretches like a feline, graceful and, most notably, as if he isn't currently sitting on a beam high enough to support the lofty ceiling. "Did you know you have rats? I mean, there's less of 'em now but you do."

_‘… ah.’_

"That has to be unsanitary."

His fellow apprentice concedes that with a shrug. "Wouldn't be half bad if they weren't raw."

Talionis has to suppress a curious shudder. And here he was convinced he had lost all his scruples a long time ago. "Wonderful. You realize there's no telling what kind of diseases you might have caught?"

"Yeah, well," Sar tips himself over backwards into a flip so smooth Talionis barely has the time for his heart to clog his throat. He moves a half-step as if to catch him without making the conscious decision to do so. Not that his assistance is needed.

Sar lands so securely he barely makes a sound. "It doesn't matter, does it?"

The claim falls between them, as matter of fact as can be. The dread that has lived in the back of Talionis mind since he began to suspect he had been outclassed flares to life with a vengeance. "This isn't a game," he bites out. "If he can't own you, he’ll destroy you."

Sar meets his eyes unblinking. "He can try."

The trouble is, after all their time together Talionis knows which way this scale will tip and that means only one thing. His hands clench into fists under an influx of emotion. "If you’d just-"

"Do not finish that sentence." For the first time since he started their little verbal match, Sar's voice grows as flat and cold as ice. It is a testament to how skewed their dynamic has grown that Talionis falls quiet in the face of his anger.

He can't bear parting like this. He has to make him _understand_. He has failed until now, but, " _Please._ "

What is he even asking for? He doesn't know. Perhaps Sar does, though. The word softens something about him. His eyes fill with the faintest edge of pity. "No. Never."

Denied again. Talionis grinds his teeth in helpless rage.

There is a sense of weight to their exchange, a finality. Whatever happens here might be the last thing they share.

Sar takes a step towards him, too small to close the suddenly unfathomable distance. "Help me. Help me kill him." His voice is soft, despite the intensity of that plea, that _demand_. "We can do it, together. _Help me_."

In two words he reaches into Talionis' chest and tears his heart out because he only has one answer and just as Sar's hasn't changed, neither has his. "I can't."

It tastes like ash.

Slowly the softness drains from Sar's features. "Fine. Then I'll go it on my own."

That sentence will haunt him for years to come.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes Baras' answer days to arrive. The waiting is endless but Yon has learned patience.

Well, patience… he has learned to wait for his moment to come, at any rate. Necessity is the mother of enlightenment.

He has nothing but time. Talionis has given up hunting him. It’s almost disappointing.

Not quite as disappointing as his refusal of alliance, though. Yon had had… hope. Something resembling hope. He hadn’t believed, not truly, but there had been a spark. Foolish. What you don’t have cannot hurt you.

That, too, is something he has come to understand and it gives him a clarity he expects most people lack. He did, not too long ago.

It lets him appreciate just how dangerous their master has made him. He has nothing to lose. What is there to hold him back? Not even fear and that is just as well. For all of his bravado, Yon is well aware of the challenge he is facing.

He has honed his own skill on Talionis until torment became lesson and then a lesson he had mastered but his fellow apprentice is nothing but a pawn himself. Baras is a Darth, with all the power that implies.

He turns that thought in his head, rolling the bones of his latest meal between his fingers. He could die. It’s very likely that he _will_ die.

Yon finds that reality has lost a lot of its edge. There are worse things than death.

_Please._

His hand closes over the rat bones until he feel the edges pierce his skin. The sting is barely worth mentioning. Not nearly enough to distract from the restless emotion Talionis has stirred in him with his begging.

How the tide has turned.

It should be _satisfying_ to be the one to deny him what he desperately needs, for once.

“Then why isn’t it?” His ramshackle bolt-hole gives him no answers.

Instead of vindication he feels… regret. It’s a grey, battered slip of a thing but he can still recognize the sickening emptiness of it. It creeps into his heart from the same place he has banished the memory of Talionis’ hand in hair, the soothing murmur of his voice when he is done trying to break him the hard way. ~~~~

There have been a few moments where Yon, exhausted, unable to remember why he was still _running_ was tempted to be caught just for another taste of that poison.

“That spineless idiot,” Yon hisses to himself, against every instinct keeping him quiet. “We could have done it.” ~~~~

The bones paint the wall in a light spray of blood when he flings them at it.

They could have done it. Now he will have to see if he can do it alone. He will have to, or he will die. There is no third option.

The dilemma that has prevented Yon’s escape so far is the following: Baras is a crafty asshole.

Not even Talionis has the keys to his kingdom here. If he did, Yon _would_ have turned the tables on him and been on his merry way, weeks ago, but it couldn’t be that easy, could it? No. They are _both_ trapped even if only one of them is trying to find a way out.

But they aren't without value. Unless Baras wants to cut his losses, he will have to retrieve whomever he intends to keep.

While that gives Yon options it also limits them. The chance that his master, or whomever he may send in his place, will stoop to chasing after him the way Talionis did is too slim. It is much more likely he will reclaim his loyal apprentice and leave his failed experiment to starve, or, if he is really attached to this stronghold, smoke him out along with the rest of the vermin in residence.

Yon does not intend to go out quietly. He hasn’t come this far to die like that.

His palm smarts when he closes his hand into a fist. Talionis has made his bed. Now he will have to lie in it.

* * *

They both have their routines, Yon’s own more unpredictable than his jailor’s. He could set a clock to Talionis’ habits and quite honestly, he has. He had to. There’s no other constant. Even the droids change pattern ever so often.

When their master arrives, Yon knows. He knows because Talionis abandons his vigil without cause, without reason. It’s not mealtime yet. For three watch cycles his fellow apprentice hadn’t left his room for anything but sustenance or to make his rounds.

Yon controls his breathing, a habit so well worn it is second nature by now, and _waits_. Time seems to slow to a crawl. Talionis’ steps are near soundless but not completely. If he closes his eyes he can tell exactly how many it will take him to be in position.

Talionis should know better than to think a simple denial will exempt him from Yon’s plans. If he isn’t with him, he is his enemy. Yon won’t fight on two fronts. His chances are slim enough as they are.

Their time together has come to an end.

* * *

When Baras’ shuttle sets down on the landing pad it does so with the precision he values so highly. There is something to be said for droids. They make no mistakes their creator does not allow them. The same is not true for people.

Instead of waiting, as he should, his apprentice is nowhere in sight.

Baras takes in this lack and tames a rush of annoyance. Considering Talionis’ unique condition there is only one possible explanation. That _brat_. “Do you have any idea how much effort I went to to break him in? He was _perfect_.”

His voice echoes through the hangar, menace in every syllable.

It doesn't cow the nuisance lying in wait in the slightest. “If he was so great, what did you need me for?” 

What, indeed. If he had known how much trouble his newest apprentice would cause him he would have never taken him on. “You will pay for this.”

Sar laughs. It sounds like nothing a sane being should be capable of producing. In the darkness of the rafters a double-bladed lightsaber comes to life in a flash of yellow light. “I don’t think so, old man!”

Talionis’ weapon. Truly, his apprentice’s failure know no bounds. Annoyance kindles to rage in the face of the evidence of just how much this impertinent pup has cost him. Baras curls his hands to fist. Lightning flickers over his armor. “When I’m done with you you will _beg_ to serve me. And then I will _kill you_.”


	4. Chapter 4

Talionis comes to with a start. Liquid rot fills his mouth, his nose, his lungs and for a panic filled moment he chokes on it and can’t come up for air. He flails wildly, soaked robes a prison dragging him down. It’s so dark you can’t see the hand in front of your face.

There’s no purchase to be had, the floor and walls slick with what feels sickeningly like slime. He claws at it, digs in, until he finally catches hold on something solid enough support him.

His head is swimming.

What happened?

Sar. Sar happened. He must have. Talionis’ last memory is of his room, sitting, waiting. There was nothing left to do but wait for his master to arrive- His _master_. The realization comes to him, splintered and shocky. He had orders. He is _failing to follow his orders_.

Talionis’ stomach seizes. He coughs up another mouthful of rotten water that tastes suspiciously like bile.

He can’t- he has to- he must- His- his orders- what, what was his master’s last message? What is he supposed to do?

Like a switch is flicked the memory comes, perfect and crisp. It drowns out everything else, even the buzzing in his ears.

_#You will wait for my arrival and our immediate departure. I have wasted enough time on this.#_

The hangar. He was supposed to go to the hangar. He needs- he needs to go. He has to- Where is he?

His weapon is gone and so is his comm. Sar didn’t even have the decency to leave him his personal omni-tool. That makes his situation harder to pin down than it should have been but there are only so many options.

Sar stuffed him down the garbage chute, didn’t he? Force.

There’s the distinct possibility that Talionis has a concussion. His thoughts are sluggish. Some sort of low level poisoning is also not out of question. He needs to get out of here.

Even with the Force at his beck and call climbing the wall of the waste disposal unit is no easy feat. Talionis scrapes his fingers raw on what meagre purchase he can find.

He’s going to catch an infection.

That clinical observation is barely an afterthought. So is the pain, the blood on his hands. He needs to do as he is told. Nothing else matters. 

* * *

Force lightning hurts like a bitch.

Yon ducks another blast, so closely the discharge sets his skin alight with shivers of pain. He can’t seem to stop smiling. “Is that all you have!”

Baras’ howl of rage is music to his ears. His own is coiled tight within his chest, like dragon’s breath caught and held and every little victory stokes it to a shining blaze. He will take his former master down with him if it’s the last thing he does, and _if_ it is he will go out burning with the joy of vengeance realized.

He will have his revenge. Pain means nothing.

Yon doesn’t waste a thought on the sting of Force energy wrought to electricity and intent left behind, gnawing at his bones, where he was _not_ quick enough to evade. He closes the distance, again, blade first. Baras’ retrieves his own just in time to block.

Yon’s not used to fighting with this kind of weapon. It does him no favours. The graze on his side twinges sharply as they clash. All it had taken was one mistake, one inch of misjudged reach and Baras had almost cut him in half. Too close. Much too close but not close _enough_ , not as close as he would have expected. It seems he was doing Talionis a disservice. He was a worthy adversary indeed.

Their sabers lock but Yon has learned _this_ lesson too. Instead of taking his master’s weight he ducks and rolls, disengages again as quickly as possible. Baras isn’t the most nimble fighter but he knows how to use his girth to his advantage. If Yon lets him dictate their battle he’s going to wear himself out and he can’t allow that to happen. He needs to keep moving.

Talionis’ weapon of choice helps him in that, at least. Double-bladed sabers are meant to distract, to misdirect and trick the eye. They're an assassin’s tool of trade. He tries to make the most of that advantage.

Under Yon’s hands the yellow blades twirl and dance in deadly arcs, glancing off Baras’ defence where he manages to intercept. Yon isn’t the only one wearing the evidence of their confrontation. Every scorch mark, every near miss feeds his avarice. He wants to see his master bleed. He wants his _suffering_. It’s what he is owed.

Driven by bloodlust and fury Yon parries a low blow, aimed to take out his legs from under him. At the last moment he hits the power switch of his weapon. One half of his lightsaber disappears without a pause. Yon's momentum carries him through the invisible bubble Baras is drawing around himself. His master’s saber passes so close a ghost of heat licks over arm.

A twist, the blink of an eye, and Yon can feel silver armor give way under his attack, melt like butter, before Baras twists back just in time to save himself from a gutting.

“You insufferable little _cur_!”

Power explodes around the older Sith. Yon barely managed to bring his arms up to shield his face. The blast takes him clean off his feet and throws him back, skidding across the floor. His uniform, already in rags, isn’t nearly enough to protect him. Pain blooms in wide scrapes, on his back and side. His lightsaber wound _screams_.

But he can’t afford hesitation. Yon is trying to force himself to push through that, to get _up_ , before Baras can kill him when the hangar doors open on an all too familiar form. ‘ _Oh no.’_

His master’s head snaps up to stare at his disgraced, dripping and very much alive apprentice. The other one. The one that is not currently doing their very best to put an end to him.

He doesn’t waste a second doing exactly what Yon expected from the second Talionis refused to help him because the bastard was _right_. He should have taken him out when he had the chance, he should have-

Baras hand comes up in a sweeping gesture. He’s shaking with rage. “Kill him!”


	5. Chapter 5

_Kill him_.

The order hits Talionis like a battering ram. It echoes through his head, sweeping all thought away and leaving no room for anything else. He takes a step forward.

Him. Who-? _Sar_.

**_Kill him._ **

****

His fellow apprentice, his prisoner, his quarry. Wasn’t he- wasn’t he supposed to keep him alive?

His head is pounding. The scene he has walked in on refuses to make sense. It filters in in pieces, the broken edges glittering with emotion so intense he can’t bear to touch upon it. The shuttle, looking a little worse for wear but so familiar. His master is here. He came.

_Of course he came, he said he would._

_He has to go to the hangar. He has to go to the hangar and meet-_

Baras. Baras, his master, his lightsaber alight and heaving with exertion and fury. His armor is damaged. He’s injured. Blood is dripping from a ragged cut in his abdominal plating.

_KILL HIM._

Talionis tracks the arc of his hand, slowly, so slowly. He feels as if he is caught in amber. The very air has turned to molasses. Why does his _head_ hurt so much? His breath is shuddering in his chest. Absently he wipes a hand under his nose. His fingers come away more bloody than they already are.

Sar. What is Sar doing here, isn’t he supposed to be in his cell? Did he escape again?

Foolish _boy_ , now he’s going to get hurt-

_Yes, he escaped, days maybe weeks ago, he knows this, he does, what is **wrong** with his mind-_

And he did get hurt, just like Talionis always tells him he will. Why does he never listen?

Sar is curled in on himself, as if to shield a gut wound. His acolyte blacks, already beyond repair, are in tatters, revealing cuts and abrasions that turn Talionis stomach. He’s _mottled_ with bruises, fresh but already coming in. What has he gotten into now? This is going to take forever to fix. Force, if he doesn’t start being a bit more careful he’s going to break himself in ways Talionis can’t repair and what will they do then?

_Will he? Is he the one doing the damage? No, he's not, it's always been-_

He needs to get the kolto- He needs to-

**_KILL HIM_**.

The pain spikes, so intense it makes him double over. He clutches at his temples instinctively, as if the pressure will help him feel less as if his brain is about to explode. It won’t. It won’t, it won’t, it won’t-

Tears are dripping down his cheeks, carving a path through the grime on his skin. Why is he crying?

_Sar, small and shivering with pain and it’s his fault, it’s all his fault, he did this, but he still can’t resist, can’t not touch when he is right there and won’t fight, won't run, when all he has to do is reach out and-_

_Sar's heartbeat flutters like a little bird, caught under Talionis’ hand, so alive. Terrified but so **alive**.  
_

_Sar, hurt, despairing, defiant and his answer is always the same. No, no, no, no, no-_

_Doesn't he want this to stop? Talionis wants it to stop. He wants to stop. He wants to-_

****

**_KILL HIM!_ **

_No_

The thought is less than a whisper, smothered under the order ringing in Talionis’ ears, strangled, dying, a shadow of things long lost, dead and dust. Like pearls on a string, once he has tugged on it, felt the tell-tale snap of tearing fibre it’s too late. The strands come apart, pretty little pieces flying everywhere, echoing in the dark.

No, he doesn’t want to remember, he doesn’t want to see-

_Sickly pale green skin, tacky with blood, seared into his memory in perfect clarity. Headtails, still twitching where they’ve been severed. The blade in his hands, the one he made under his master’s watchful eye, is humming with power._

_His master had put his hand on his shoulder, so big then and so proud. “Well done, padawan,” he said with a smile._

_His master... no, that's not right... is it?_

_She reaches for his ankle, shaking, weak. They’re all so weak. Something about her face isn’t right. Nautolan, human, twi'lek, her features swim and reform and for a moment Talionis remembers dark hair and fire-bright eyes above a bloodied mouth, teeth bared in a snarl. “Somminick,” her voice is a horrid thing, choked and dying, “this isn’t you.”_

_Who is Somminick?_

_He raises his blade and-_

Talionis comes back to himself, bile in his throat. His mind is filled to bursting, a writhing mass of agony and screams, of blood. So much blood. He has to follow his orders, he has to- he has to-

**_KILL! HIM!_ **

**_No!_ **

****

“Unbelievable. You are _useless_.” Baras’ hiss cleaves through the cacophony setting his mind alight. His lungs seize in terror but even that is an abstract feeling at best. There is something more important, more important than anything, something he has to do but what was it- what-

His master turns his back on him in disgust, turns to his opponent, to Sar, still on the floor. Lightning flashes over his arms and Sar raises a hand that will never be enough to protect him from what is coming.

Unthinkingly Talionis mimics him, lost, reaching for his master in a silent plea he can't give words to. As if anything he does could stop this, as if he ever had any power over what Baras does and does not do. He can’t stop him. He never could. He never did. All the things he made him do, all the people he made him kill, all the _blood_ on his hands. All that Baras stole, tore from him without a thought, and he couldn't even fight him, he couldn't- he didn't-

_Somminick- Somminick, please...  
_

And he will take this too.

Something inside Talionis _breaks_. It comes apart like a mirror, smashed and badly mended, emotion boiling up from underneath like lava from a volcano. Rage fills him to the brim. Everything he is _drowns_ in it.

The memories, the fear, his _sense of self_ until there is nothing, nothing, just an all-encompassing fury so great he could tear himself apart with it. Baras took _everything_. He took everything from him and he left him with nothing and now he will _take Sar too_.

The world turns _red_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Blood and gore. Not described terribly graphically but… yeah.

Yon can’t breathe. He can’t _move_. He _needs to get moving or he’s going to **die**_.

Even the thought of scrambling back makes him ache but that isn’t what has him pinned. Talionis, always aloof but for the occasional, brief flare of emotion as short-lived as a firefly, is _screaming_ in the Force. He’s a gaping wound awash with agony, echoing with the order that is tearing him apart.

Command clashes with desperate, confused denial shot through with sparks of horror. Talionis’ shields are falling apart, unable to withstand the storm within. Yon can _feel_ them rip and attempt to repair themselves unsuccessfully. Even second-hand the experience makes his skin crawl.

Composure, or what should be composure, flakes off Talionis’ writhing presence in paper-thin shreds.

They don’t dissolve immediately, these delicate tatters that shouldn’t be able to exist unattached from the person who created them. Instead they flutter on the unseen currents of the Force for long moments before they start to fade. Yon’s senses slide over them and he recoils with a shudder of revulsion. It’s like touching on oil slick, or perhaps silk, too cool and too smooth. Where Talionis’ presence strains against the cracks waves of raw feeling break free so intense he can barely keep them separate from his own.

Baras hisses in aggravation.

Despite his displeasure he doesn’t seem impaired and if Yon doesn't _get his ass in gear_ that will be the end of him.

He struggles against the flood of unfiltered emotion. He has to move. He has to. Baras is going to _kriffing murder him_. The starburst of triumphant spite, of hope, of… things he can’t name that is coasting on the edge of Talionis' pain, ( he’s doing what Yon didn’t think he would, what he _said he wouldn’t_ , he’s fighting, finally, finally- ) sputters and dies. Terror rises in its wake.

He’s too slow.

Half-blinded by projections that aren’t his own, can’t be his own, he sees lightning splinter where there shouldn’t be out of the corner of his eye. He has just enough time to bring up his arms reflexively, not that that will help. The Force _howls_ in his ears.

‘ _No,_ ’ denial rages through him and he can’t say if it’s his own or not, ‘ _No!’_

Yon presses his eyes closed, every muscle tense in anticipation. Power boils in his blood, burns under his skin and sets his soul alight. It _hurts_ , it’s agony, and Yon blindly leans into the pain of _toomuchtoomuchtoomuch_ and grabs for _more_. He needs it, he _needs more power_ and he needs it _now_.

Faintly he remembers cautionary tales he learned what feels like eons ago and he knows he shouldn’t but does he have a choice?

Darkness tears at him as if to swallow him whole.

The Force flows through him and for an immeasurably span of time Yon all but ceased to exist. Everything he is fuels the fire, burns itself to the quick. Channelling the flood feels as if he’s trying to drink a river of tar and searing blood.

He can’t take it but he can’t stop or it will kill him, one way or another.

The world turns _red_.

For endless seconds there is… nothing.

The pain ebbs, Yon goes deaf with the howling hollowing him out and blind with the pressure of the Force upon his mind. It’s peaceful, on the other side of the storm but the calm is treacherous. He’s floating above the current he called up, detached, but his buoyancy could end any moment and see him drowning.

Yon waits for the agony to return, heart in his throat but it doesn’t. Quietly, noise starts to filter back in. His eyes are screwed shut so tightly they hurt. Pain blossoms almost gently, sneaking in along with the awareness of his body that is slowly returning to him. His limbs are leaden. Every breath is a struggle.

Is this what dying feels like?

It wouldn’t be the first time his mind has refused to process what his nerve endings are trying to tell it. At some point even biology just… gives up. Yon _aches_ , all over, but a strange, comforting warmth sinks into him even so. Something about it threatens to make him throw up on the spot.

But he’s not dead, not yet and he has come too far to give up.

Come what may, he will face it.

Braced by that thought and little else Yon forces himself to squint at his opponent. Every instinct he has rebels against it, as if he is a child again, convinced the monster in the closet won’t see him if he doesn’t look.

Baras is gone.

 _That_ realization is enough to jolt Yon to action. He flinches, makes himself a smaller target, eyes darting over the hangar frantically in search for his master. For the threat. His heart is beating so fast it’s making him ill.

Or maybe that’s… whatever is wrong with his sight. Everything is… red. _He_ is red, painted red from head to toe and-

Oh… oh. Oh _fuck_. He has cut up enough rats lately to know what the insides of a living thing look like. Well, a dead thing. A very, very dead thing. No matter how much horror you have seen, there is apparently always something that can still catch you on the wrong foot. Like seeing what is left of another sentient being after it has been torn to bits and smeared across the floor, even if you have _dreamed_ of doing just that as much as he has.

Yon breathes through a wash of nausea and forces himself not to think about how wet his face feels. He doesn’t try to wipe it clean. His hands are- they are- he doesn’t.

Baras is gone. There is barely a trace of his Force presence hanging in the air and what little there is is fading quickly. That, at last, starts to trickle down from fear to realization. Slowly it starts to fill Yon from within in ways he wasn’t sure he ever would feel more than empty again even as a tremble takes hold of him he has no hope of controlling. He’s _gone_.

If he still had tears left after what he has gone through he would cry.

* * *

Talionis comes back to himself by increments. He’s breathing heavily, his throat whistling sickly with every inhale. His whole body is cramped, tense. He’s reaching for something, hand stretched out and he can't remember what it was. There’s nothing there but a vividly red heap he can't seem to stop staring at, halfway between him and-

Sar.

A whisper murmurs through his thoughts, the afterimage of a shackle wrought from words. It’s gone as quickly as it came. His mind is so quiet.

His master is dead.

He knows it with a bone-deep certainty born from spending every moment of every day in his presence, chained to his will. Those bonds now lead… nowhere. There’s nothing there.

He can’t remember a time when he wasn’t weighed down by Baras’ power over him and the emptiness that came with it. The second is waiting in the wings, numbing and familiar. The first is nowhere to be found.

Talionis feels as if he’s standing on quicksand. It’s ridiculous, the floor is solid, why wouldn’t it be-

His master is dead.

What is he supposed to do now?

He loses time. Between one blink and the next Sar has heaved himself upright shakily. He’s shockingly pale with deep shadows like bruises under his red, red eyes. Veins stand out stark against his papery skin. All in all, Sar looks as if he has aged ten years in the span of minutes and caught a terminal illness on top of it.

Their eyes meet.

He’s going to leave now, isn’t he? He's going to lose him after all.

That thought, too, isn’t something Talionis can seem to process. He swears he can feel the other Sith slip through his fingers already, like a mirage. As if he was never there. Was he? Is he? How much of this is real? It can’t be. His master can’t be dead.

He feels so lost, adrift.

As he watches helplessly Sar skirts the pile of-

_The pile of bones and bloody tissue that used to be his master, his master who is dead, dead, dead_ -

Sar skirts the worst of the mess at a safe distance, skittish as if it is going to get up and attack him. Hatred flashes across his face, dark and visceral. Talionis swears he can feel it wash over him in a rush of heat, there and gone.

“Who’s laughing now, old man? Huh?” His mockery is shot through with doubt, shaky. It seems Talionis isn’t the only one struggling.

For a long moment, Sar hesitates there. Behind him the shuttle’s bay doors are standing open, the ramp is still down. It takes Talionis a long time, months, before he realizes what must have been going through his head. What kind of decision he must be making. He never does ask Sar if he thought of leaving him behind.

He could have. What would have stopped him?

_And why shouldn’t he, when Talionis is who he is, when he did what he did, when nothing could ever make it right-_

For whatever reason, Sar hesitates. His eyes find Talionis and his mouth twists into a frown. A strand of gore-crusted hair slips free from where he has stuffed it behind his ear. He tries to blow it away unsuccessfully. “Urg.” Sar pulls a face. He glances at Talionis again. Something stirs inside his chest he can’t quite identify. “Got off your arse after all, I see.”

That tiny spark grows.

He doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. When he thinks back, when he remembers, Talionis will muss over how, perhaps, under all the layers of emptiness Baras had heaped upon it, his heart knew what was happening even if his mind was too choked to catch up, reeling with his world torn from underneath his feet.

Sar could leave him behind. He could. He could leave him here to die or somehow manage to find his own way out, trapped as he trapped him, and it would be nothing less than he deserves, wouldn’t it?

It would be… fair, Talionis thinks absently. Fitting, perhaps.

Sar squints at him suspiciously. "Wow and here I thought you'd be more chatty now. You're a right party favor, aren't you?"

“I’m not much for celebration.”

The retort slips out as naturally as breathing, no thought required. How does Sar keep doing this to him?

Undeterred by Talionis’ general apathy, wounded but unbowed, he turns his back on his chance for escape and picks his way past the remains of their master. He’s warry and not only of Baras’ corpse.

Who could blame him? He has every reason to be. They were, are, enemies even if what Talionis shares with Sar is the closest relationship with another person he has had in living memory.

_In what remains of his memory, at least._

Despite his obvious distrust Sar slinks closer. He musters his counterpart, his nemesis, for a long moment. Talionis returns the scrutiny blankly.

It’s novel. There’s no need driving him to action, nothing but the phantom of an order pressing along his mind that once was an inescapable vice.

Well. There is one need. The faint desire to touch him again like a whisper in his ear, to reach out and feel the soft warmth of his heartbeat. Talionis curls his fingers, prickling with that sense-memory, and swallows. Yes, he would like to do that.

He would _like_ to do something. How strange.

Before he can make up his mind concerning how he feels about that, Sar raps his knuckles against the center of his chest. The touch echoes through him like the strike of a gong. He knows it's biologically impossible but Talionis would swear that's when his heart started beating again. It jolts against his ribs, sudden and shocking. _Alive_.

"That's a shame because you know what this is? This is the moment where i get to say 'I told you so'. If that doesn't call for a toast, I don't know what does."

He looks terrible, beaten, bruised and drained by the Dark as only those do who reach too deep and go too far but there still is that strand of wilful determination woven right through him. Talionis has despaired over it many times, tried to wrest it from him with all his might when he still thought it would kill him and maybe it will. Maybe it will yet.

Seeing him shine with it makes Talionis heart _ache_ though. He doesn't know how he would have lived with snuffing it out.

Sar throws one last, contemptuous look at what remains of their master and spits. He wonders what it is like to feel enough to want to do that. Perhaps he'll find out. Sar seems to bring it out in him. 

"Let's blow this joint. I don't know about you but I've been done with this kriff since about five seconds after I got here." It takes Sar a few steps to realize Talionis isn't following that invitation. He's rooted to the spot, the yawning abyss of an uncertain future a paralyzing prospect right in front of him. Just one step. Just one. He just needs to start walking, or has he unlearned how to do that- Terror threatens to break through his numbness and swallow him whole. 

Sar glances back his way. "You coming?"

Without pause, Talionis takes a step his way. The arresting grip of possibility starts to slide off his shoulders.

His enemy, his rival, his partner in crime waits for him to catch up and he falls in at his shoulder without a second thought. "Where to?"

"Eh. How about a refresher, I'm not picky about the rest."

Fair enough.

Sar makes his way to the ramp of the idling shuttle at a leisurely pace, though the tension in his shoulders belies his unconcerned façade. He steals a glance at his companion, fingers brushing over the stolen lightsaber at his hip absently. Talionis mouth curves before he quite knows why. Maybe there is more than one thing he would like to do.

Instead of rising to the lure, he says, blandly, “You realize this craft will not want to work for us.”

“I don’t give a shit about what it wants,” is Sar’s immediate and caustic retort.

Talionis is tempted to sigh. There’s nothing holding him back, so he does. “All I am saying is that you should be prepared for the chance that it might be a challenge to make it fly.”

That is true enough. If he knows his master at all Baras will have secured his personal transport against intruders thoroughly. Perhaps especially against intruders he would expect to try and run off with his ship. The two of them are without a doubt the most predictable candidates for that kind of stunt.

Sar’s mouth twists but his displeasure is brief. Under Talionis’ watchful eyes his anger flares and dims. Thoughtfulness takes its place and softens his face to almost angelic innocence. The evidence of how he has suffered only gives it more weight. Talionis’ heart turns over in his chest at the sight. Every thought of testing himself against Sar's ever sharpening edges is washed in shades of guilt. 

What he has no way of knowing: This is an expression he, and every single one of their future subordinates, will learn to dread. Slowly Sar sounds out a question just as innocent as he is. Meaning, only at first glance. “Does it have to?”

It does not. The shuttle is perfectly capable of passing the security checkpoints without any propulsion whatsoever. It should go without saying that a block of metal with wings in freefall does not travel far but it does travel _far enough_ , if you, as Sar puts it, ‘give it a push’. The entrance to Baras’ stronghold is on a cliff. That is fortunate in ways Talionis could have done without.

The less said about that little adventure, the better.

They crash roughly ten miles out of Kaas City, which Talionis knows because it takes the authorities over an hour to respond to their explosive landing and attempt to apprehend them.

In hindsight, this auspicious beginning does foreshadow their future relationship quite a lot.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little glimpse of the future ;)

_One year later_

“A rebellion? Again?” Darth Mortis turns the glass in his hand with an expression of mild distaste. “You would think they had learned their lesson by now.”

After today’s lengthy debates on the matter the opening is barely more than a polite conversational hook for his colleague. They both know where they stand on the matter. Ravage pounces upon the chance to air his grievances nonetheless. “Exactly. Obviously they can’t be taught. We’d be better off if we just razed the entire region to the ground.”

He’s barely picking up speed when a snort brings him up short.

The sound carries more rudeness than one would think possible. Vowrawn finds himself impressed time and again by how the youngest member of their illustrious circle manages as much. His disregard for the trouble he borrows on a regular basis only makes watching him more entertaining.

As he is now: Ravage whirls to face Sar where he’s passing him by with a dramatic flare of robes, color high on his cheeks. The object of his ire looks less than impressed. In fact, he doesn’t seem to find it worth the effort to stop until the incensed Sith grinds out, “You d _are_.”

“Dare what?” _Now_ Sar pauses. The glance he affords his rival of choice for the hour is as contemptuous as any Vowrawn has ever earned himself from his own grandaunt, may she finally keel over and die one of these days. “That was the stupidest thing I’ve heard all day.” His tone conveys the unspoken end of that sentence perfectly, ‘And I’ve heard a lot.’

“Why you-!“ Before Ravage can lose his temper more than he already has and start a fight Vowrawn would _dearly_ like some box seats for, a large, gloved hand comes down on Sar’s shoulder. Sar doesn’t so much as twitch. That’s just one of these interesting little puzzle pieces most of his colleagues ignore but he files away with the care of a curator.

Darth Talionis, towering over his slighter fellow Head of Offense (in more ways than one, much to Vowrawn’s bemusement) manages the trick of navigating his partner to his side without resorting to anything as crude as towing him over. Sar follows his cue, biddable as can be, but doesn't leave his opponent out of his sight for a second.

It’s displays like this one that convince most of the Dark Council that Baras’ longer standing student is in charge of his late master’s little kingdom after all and, perhaps, employing Baras' wisdom in full in using his younger former pupil for a shield. Sar does excel in drawing attention.

Vowrawn has his doubts of that, however. Talionis closes in, removes Sar from the brewing fight… but who was in danger here, truly?

_'That young man has the eyes of a krayt. They both do. How lovely.'_

“Please do excuse him. It has been a long day.” The Mirialan assassin’s smile is little more than a bland façade. Most of his expressions are.

Nevertheless the show of apparent reprimand softens some of Ravage’s temper, or perhaps it might be the superior numbers that sap him of his zeal. Ravage has never been known to stain himself with bravery.

Not more than it takes to favour the younger of the pair with a look of disdain, anyhow. “I shall do no such thing. Your _colleague_ ,” he might as well have said ‘pet’ for the implications dripping off those syllables, “should learn to respect his elders.”

The curve of Talionis’ lips is as unmoved as his reptilian stare. “Of course. As they are due.”

_'Oh my, what a sharp tongue you have, dear boy.'_

Really, Sar may excel in making waves, his disregard unapologetic and crude, but the other half of that pair is no less cutting in his own way when he puts his mind to having a care. The recent months have been… interesting.

While Vowrawn ponders that the newest members of the Dark Council make their excuses. They are barely out of Ravage’s earshot before Sar huffs. “Respect? Pah. I’ll teach him _respect_. His opinions belong in the trash, right where he left his impulse control. Did you hear that krobbish?”

Despite the fact that his smile remains as superficial as it has ever been where Vowrawn could see, Talionis makes a sound of amusement so soft he almost misses it despite how well versed he is at listening in where no one expects him to. “We don’t have to say that to his face, do we?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Of course you don’t.” The retort is more fond than exasperated.

Interesting indeed. Vowrawn’s immediate future promises to be _fun_. What a wonderful prospect. This wasp nest of theirs can always use a good kick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where this part of their story ends :D for now.  
> The next one will cover what happened between their escape and the epilogue but I liked this ending too much to pass it up.


End file.
